


Hold Onto Me

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Study, Childhood Memories, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, One-Sided Attraction, Past Torture, Polyamory, Poverty, Pre-Threesome, Relationship Negotiation, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-19 00:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Critical Role drabbles, written for prompts from both my fic blog and the hdmof discord. Largely character studies and explorations of character dynamics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **cloversion asked:** i stilll have yet to begin critrole, but from the things that have crossed my dash, pike is at the top of my list of potential faves? luv ppl who just want to help & do good… mayb somethin fluffy w her? owo

“I don’t think I’m doing very well at this…” mumbled Grog, hesitantly, looking down at Pike sat cross-legged in front of him. She was so _tiny_  compared to him, her whole head barely the size of his palm - and trying to wrestle with the three silky strands he’d separated out of Pike’s length of hair was turning out to be remarkably difficult.

Pike smiled kindly, stretching her legs out in front of her to feel the sun on them, the faint tickle of grass against her skin. There was a ladybird crawling across the leaf of a nearby plant, and she had a vague hope it might decide to come and crawl across her instead. “I think you’re doing a _wonderful_  job, Grog,” she reassured him, even when his attempts to get her hair under control again tugged at her scalp. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve done.”

“It’s, uh… it’s a bit of a mess,” offered Grog, almost shyly, but there was a faint note of pride to his voice at Pike’s easy praise. “But, it _does_  look a bit like Vex and Vax’s, so I think I’m doing well!”

“Like I said,” murmured Pike, turning her face up to the sun a little and closing her eyes, until the darkness behind her eyelids glowed-orange gold with light. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”

As much as she loved their work, and knew how important it was, this was what she loved the best - lazy summer days on the road, the six of them stopped at some inn on a less-trodden road, the sun high in the sky and the world quiet and still and _easy_  around her. It was rare, in their hectic lives, to find a moment of peace, but this… this was _true_  peace.

“And, if you mess it up, we can just brush it out, and you can try again again if you want,” she said, squinting one eye open to peer up at the wide, blue, cloudless sky. “It’s not a problem.”

Out of the corner of her gaze, she could see Vax up a tree, half-hidden in the dappled shadows and draped across a wide branch like a lazy cat. Somewhere out of sight, Percy and Keyleth were deep in conversation, determinedly ignoring Scanlan’s less-than-helpful interruptions and the snatches of vulgar poetry he kept singing - although she couldn’t see them, she knew the low buzz of each of their voices like the back of her hand. Vex, she’d lost sight of earlier, and couldn’t hear either. She suspected the half-elf had found a warm spot in the long grass and drifted off, safe for once in the company of her friends.

Grog tugged on her scalp a little again, mumbled an apology, and she could almost feel her hair tangling under his clumsy ministrations. Not that she minded, though. It was… nice, just being here, surrounded by her friends in the warmth, with someone playing with her hair. “It’s forgiving like that, hair,” she added, voice little more than a low murmur, soft and drowsy. “If you mess it up, you can always just try again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** I'm not too far into Crit Role yet, but maybe something with Vex and Vax as children coming to the realization that they're not really wanted at home?

“We don’t belong here, do we,” says Vax, quietly, one evening. His dagger - a half-blunt thing, the hilt wrapped in scraps of fabric, the weighting of it entirely off for throwing, but beloved all the same - dances from hand to hand in the low light almost faster than the eye can track. He’s been practising, half-healed cuts across the fine-boned lengths of his fingers.

They’re worth it for the speed it moves now, the sureness with which he can handle the familiar weight of it, the way that only the slightest flash of the blade gives its movement away.

Vex snorts. “How did you notice?” she mutters, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Of course we don’t, brother. We haven’t been welcome since the moment we set foot in this place.” Her fingers, tugging the length of her hair into a tight, neat braid - something her father disapproves of as entirely unnecessary and common, somehow both too plain and too excessive - pull harder than they need to, quick and angry.

“No, I mean…” The dagger flashes again, and again, the light from a nearby torch catching the blade. Vax sighs. “I _know_  they don’t want us here, but- but _we_  don’t want us here, either. We don’t _belong_  here, sis, this- this isn’t _us_. Sitting around in a forest, playing nice, communing with nature… it’s too _tame_.”

She knows exactly what he means, the restless itch that’s a semi-permanent addition beneath her skin flaring at his words, but she laughs, nonetheless. It’s quiet, pitched low so as to not draw the attention of any adults nearby that might come over and ask why there are children sat in the shadows, playing with knives, a half-hour past their bedtime. “I’m quite enjoying the nature-communing, thank you very much.”

The sound brings a smile to Vax’s face nonetheless, a bright flash of teeth in the darkness as fast and as sharp as his dagger, delighted to see his sister happy. “Well, I know, you and that bear- Trinket, _Trinket_ ,” he corrects, and the only half-joking glare she shoots him, “are getting on well enough, I suppose. Maybe we’ll make a forest-dwelling hippy of you yet, sis.”

She hasn’t smiled much since they arrived, something drawn and guarded in her that wasn’t there before. He’s the same, he knows - but, of the two of them, he’s always smiled more easily. It’s his job to cheer her up, not hers to cheer him up.

Until they can be themselves again - until they can find a way to get out of here, free themselves from this village and from their father - he’ll just have to smile enough for the both of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Not really a prompt, but I misread one of them as Percy/Keyleth hurt/comfort, and then wrote something for it before realising my mistake, so. It can go here.)

“Tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

Percy sighed. At his side, his hand had found his gun, thumb rubbing slowly over the curve of the trigger in an attempt to ward off the faint tremors his hands seemed to have developed whenever they weren’t holding a weapon. 

“It’s not, though, is it?” he said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failing miserably. He was exhausted - they all were - and it was showing, in the way his control was slipping, the anger like molten metal in his blood and black powder in his bones bubbling to the surface. “It never is, with us. We’re like- we’re like a permanent walking disaster magnet, we just lurch from one near-death to another. Never a moment’s rest…”

“ _Percy_.” Keyleth’s fingers dug into his thigh like claws, and she pressed herself a little closer to his side. When she was anxious like this, scared or stressed or that strange half-angry half-sad sort of mood she seemed to fall into so often, she turned into a small, burrowing animal - pressing herself as close as she could get, and then closer still, trying to tuck herself under his arm and into his coat. “That’s not what I _said_.” Her words were tinged with desperation. “ _Tell me_  everything’s going to be okay. _Please_.”

For a long moment, Percy was silent.

“…Everything’s going to be okay, Keyleth” he murmured, trying not to think about how easily, how _naturally_  lying through his teeth came to him nowadays. He tugged his free arm from between them and curled it around her shoulder, drawing her in a little closer - partially for comfort, but mostly, if he was being honest with himself, so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. “I promise you. We’re all going to be fine.”

Shivering - with the cold, or for some other reason, he didn’t know, and didn’t intend to pry - she leant into his touch. Like this, he could feel the tension in her, the frozen way she was holding herself, the taut muscles of her neck and upper back. “Thank you,” she breathed, leaning her head against his shoulder, face pressed against the rough fabric of his coat. “ _Thank you_.”

His hand, hidden out of her line of sight by his hip, began to tremble, and this time no amount of tracing the cold, hard lines of his pistol was enough to make it stop.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous asked:** percy and nightmares? i have such a weakness for nightmares in general and i imagine percy gets them A LOT. maybe hurt/comfort-y with someone, maybe just like the start of ep 27. ^_^ thanks in advance if you decide to do something with this :)

Percy’s never slept well. Even as a little child, he’d lie awake for hours, staring at the dark canopy of his four-poster bed and _thinking_  - mind racing with ideas, plans, projects he needed to put into motion. The huge grandfather clock in the main hall would strike ten, and then eleven, and then midnight, and still he’d be awake, thoughts whirling around his head like a flock of unsettled ravens.

He still doesn’t sleep well, nowadays, but for… slightly different reasons.

The dreams vary from night to night. Sometimes, they are bad - Cassandra, the arrows protruding from her back in a mockery of angel’s wings, the snow around her stained red. The dead eyes of his mother and father, laid out in a neighbouring cell and left for the rats and the flies. Ripley, with her needle and her scalpel and her quick, clever fingers that found all the soft, tender places inside of him and ripped them open for her own amusement more than anything else.

Sometimes, they are worse. Vax sprawled and still on the palace lawns, his throat a gaping, bloody hole and Silas’ grinning face stained crimson with gore. The bodies, hanging from the Sun Tree, no longer cleverly-picked strangers, but his friends, and his body with them. Vex, silent as the grave and death-pale, no amount of magic or prayer or desperate, hopeless tears enough to free her from the Raven Queen’s uncaring clutches. 

Worst of all are the ones where the Briarwoods flank him - Delilah on his right, and him at Silas’ right hand. The favoured son. In those dreams, Delilah touches his cheek, strokes it with her cold, delicate fingers, and Silas rests a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he knows, beyond all doubts, that he has done well. That they are _proud_  of him.

In those dreams, he is _grateful_  for their pride, feels warm and grateful at the mere thought of it. The smoke curls around him, thick and choking, but it’s alright. He no longer needs to breathe.

He wakes from those dreams sick, sick to his stomach, shaking and scrubbing at face to clear the cold sweat and tears from his skin. The work bench is hard beneath his head, the burnt-down forge warm at his back, and in the minutes it takes him to scramble out of his workshop - run up to the dining hall, up to where his friends are laughing and joking over breakfast and so very much  _alive_  - he wears the weight of the Briarwood’s pride and Orthax’s ashen touch like an anchor round his neck.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **anonymous asked:** maybe some vex/keyleth h/c?

“I just- what if I’m not _good_  enough?” says Keyleth, quietly. For anyone else, it’d be hard to make out her face in the darkness - but even half-elves have good eyesight, and Vex’s vision is clear enough to see the thin twist of her lips, the tight pull of her brows inwards, the thin shine of unshed tears in her eyes. “What if I’m just not… not meant to do this? Not meant to come back. From my Aramente. I mean- my mom didn’t, and maybe it’s- there’s something wrong. With- with the bloodline, or- maybe I’m just not _meant_  to-”

“Keyleth-” starts Vex - but Keyleth is gone, too caught up in the tightly-wound knot of fear and anxiety she carries like a stone within her chest to stop talking.

“I just,” she mumbles, scrubbing at her cheeks as the tears begin to fall, clear trails that glint silver in the moonlight. “What if I’m _not_ good enough, though? I know you _say_  I am, but- What if I’m not even _good_ , I mean- I’ve done so _much_  with you guys, and I know- I know we try to help, but I can’t help thinking, all those people we killed, all the- the people _I’ve_  killed, and we didn’t _need_  to, we could have- we could have-”

Taking a deep breath, Vex reaches out, and tugs Keyleth towards her. The actions one part an attempt at comfort, two parts an attempt to quiet her for long enough to get a word in edgeways. Either way, it works, Keyleth moving easily with Vex’s pull until she’s encased in Vex’s arms, held to her chest.

The crying doesn’t stop, exactly, but with her head pressed against the slow, steady beat of Vex’s heart, it does… ease. Everything’s easier when she’s in Vex’s arms, for some reason - or, rather, for a very specific reason. Just not one she’s got time to untangle right now.

“Kiki. Listen to me- no, _listen to me_ ,” says Vex, firmly, but not unkindly, as Keyleth’s breathing turns to hiccups. “You are _so good_. You’re our heart, our moral compass- and maybe you don’t always make the wisest decisions, but _none_  of us do. Look at Grog, look at Percy, look at Vax - we’ve all made our mistakes. What’s important is _learning_ from them.”

Keyleth swallows a hiccup, exhaling shakily, aware her tears had probably soaked through Vex’s undershirt by this point but both unable and unwilling to pull away. “But what if I don’t learn fast enough? What if- what if next time I make a mistake, it’s- it’s something serious? What if one of you-”

She can’t even finish that thought, terrified that giving it words will make it real.

“Keyleth.” There’s an uncharacteristic gentleness to Vex’s voice, more genuine than the false kindness she used when bartering or trying to get something she wanted. “Darling, _please_.” She presses a kiss to the crown of Keyleth’s head, red hair silky-soft beneath her lips. “Let’s be honest here. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, in all our adventures, it’s that even death itself isn’t enough to pry Vox Machina apart.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "oblivious" on the hdmof discord.

Vax never thought he’d meet anyone more oblivious than Keyleth, not when it comes to romance – but he genuinely thinks she might have met her match in Kashaw.

He mentions that to her, ill-advisedly, when they’re taking a walk through Whitestone castle gardens in the aftermath of another unsuccessful attempt to subtly lure Kashaw into bed with them. She elbows him, which he’s more than willing to admit he deserves, and then collapses into giggles against him, burying her face in his neck. Despite the steady approach of spring, the air’s still got a bite to it, and the cold of her nose is enough to make him squeak.

“Yes, we’re really not doing a very good job of this, are we?” she asks, when she’s recovered a little, pulling away from him to cup a rose bush’s tentative attempt at a flower in her hands. The gardens suffered heavily under the Briarwoods’ neglect and foul taint – though they’re recovering, slowly, under Cassandra’s steady hand, and with the help of Keyleth. She breathes new life into the plants every time she treads the garden’s paths, whether she means to or not.

(Vax remembers the look on Percy’s face, the first time he’d come down to the garden and seen the white roses flowering despite the rot creeping up their stems and the thin layer of frost on the ground. He’d touched one of the blooms with shaky fingers, eyes wide, and whispered, “These were always mother’s favourites,” and Vax’s chest aches a little with the memory of it.)

“I don’t know what else to do!” says Vax, with a groan, resisting the urge to sit on the damp grass and just flop onto his back and stare up at the watery blue of the sky. “It’s not like I’m an- an _expert_ at this, or anything – and no, I am _not_ asking my sister, _goddess_ , I’d rather cut my own cock off, thank you,” he adds, correctly interpreting the half-part of Keyleth’s lips.

Keyleth giggles again, releasing the rose with a small whisper of encouragement. “Well, you tried, and that’s what counts,” she says, contemplatively, moving back over to link arms with him again and carry on down the garden path. “And I’d rather you- didn’t. Do that. So, maybe… maybe let me have a go? You had your turn, I’ll have mine, that kind of thing.”

The thought of Keyleth – wide eyed, blushing, deer-in-the-headlights Keyleth – trying to seduce _anyone_ into bed is… well. Vax has enough tact, this time, to not tell her what he thinks. Instead, he agrees, with a grin and a cheerful _good luck_ , and hopes to god she doesn’t do anything stupid.

Which is why, next morning, when Vax watches as Keyleth slips into a seat at the breakfast table besides Kashaw rather than him, he braces himself for what’s inevitably going to be either the most hilarious or the most agonising few minutes of his entire life.

“So,” says Keyleth, brightly, all messy red hair and early-morning clumsiness and jittery nerves as she reaches across him for the bacon – Whitestone, thankfully, knows how to cook things _other_ than chicken, and it’s a welcome change. “I’ve been talking to Vax and, well, we both think you’re very attractive, and- well, look. What’s your opinion threesomes?”

If Vax is a little offended on Keyleth’s behalf by the way Kashaw spits coffee all over her in sheer _surprise_ , well… it’s not the end of the world. He’s sure, after after all, that Kashaw can make it up to her between the sheets.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "halcyon", on the hdmof discord.

Percy remembers very little of his childhood. His early years are the blurry haze of a small child’s memory, and his later years are marred by the trauma that came after, like smoke damage to a polaroid photograph. After the age of sixteen, everything goes dark for three straight years, empty pages in the history book of his life.

(Percy is, deep down, a little grateful he doesn’t remember much of his childhood, for fear of what might lurk beneath the idyllic watercolours his mind has created in the absence of memory.)

He remembers bits and pieces, though. His mother was a beautiful woman. She looked a little like Cassandra, without the grey in hair, her face rounder and softer and less… pinched, less hungry. Less hurt. She certainly didn’t have Cassandra’s sternness, or her scars, and he remembers her kissing his forehead with rose-red lips, petal-soft.

(His mother was an absent woman, busy with the day-to-day duties of running a castle and entertaining guests and keeping up the good name of the de Rolos. She saw little of him as a child, leaving the rearing of him and his siblings to wet nurses and tutors and servants. She rarely visited him before bed, and even more rarely offered him a kiss on the forehead before his eyes fell closed in sleep.)

Father… father was sterner, had more of Cassandra’s battle-ready grit in the deep lines and sharp angles of his face. He had a low voice, and a neatly-trimmed beard, and wore a sword at his hip as a matter of course. Percy’s not sure if it was ceremonial or functional, but he remembers touching it, once, tracing small, chubby fingers around the inlaid gems and gold filigree. He remembers the way his father’s eyes used to squint a little, sparkling by way of a smile, the crows-foot wrinkles creasing with amusement.

(His father was an absent man, disappointed that Percy was a less-than-useful extra son with no official title, rather than a daughter that could have been married off for a strategic alliance. Percy was uninterested in hunting, mediocre at swordplay, with a mind for tactics and economics but no _application_ to the subjects. _Why can’t you be more like your brother?_ went the common refrain, along with a gesture to Julius, the shining jewel in the de Rolo family crown.)

His siblings were numerous – seven is too many children for any family, he thinks, with fond exasperation. He loved them, though (he thinks). They squabbled and fought, like any other siblings, but they were happy nonetheless. Though he jokes with Cassandra, sometimes, that she was never his favourite… he can’t quite remember who _was_ , now he puts his mind to it.

(He forgets how merciless Julius was, in swordplay practices and in _everything_ , determined to be the best and more than willing to tread on those below to get there. How absent Vesper was, a miniature of their mother in the making, an empty ghost in her own childhood home. How much of a bully Oliver was, charming in front the adults and vicious away from them. How _sharp_ Whitney was, book-smart and with a razor’s-edge of a silver tongue that would have put Vex’ahlia to shame. How much of a trouble-maker Ludwig was, the youngest son, the forgotten son, determined to make his parents notice him whatever the cost. How quiet Cassandra was, a wide-eyed little child, soft at the edges but dark, such a _dark_ tangle of thorns, in the centre.)

He’s sure it doesn’t matter, the gaps in his memories, the voids where his family should be. He’s sure he loved them all, very much. He’s _sure_ it doesn’t matter, and he’s content with the fragments – with the watercolours in his mind’s eye, soft and hazy, and lit by the setting sun.

(He’s sure it’s better, this way, to remember them like this – a kiss on the forehead, crinkling eyes, childish squabbles and laughter. He’s sure that whatever hides behind the watercolours, whatever he could salvage from the burnt polaroids if he tried, _really tried_ … it couldn’t possibly be better than this.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "clarification", from the hdmof discord.

It’s not _easy_. Nothing is ever easy, nothing in Vax’ildan’s whole goddamn _life_ has been easy – so why should it start now, he supposes, huffing out a white cloud of breath into the sharp evening air.

The doorway’s _right there_ , just across from the one he’s currently skulking in the shadows of, all warm, inviting light and familiarity. It should be easy, just… walk across, knock on the door, speak. Explain things

Except it’s _not_ easy, and there’s no guide for this, and Vax has never had to have a conversation before that’s gone, _Hi, sorry to bother you, but I’d just like to clarify whether, when you said you sort of loved me that one evening and I broke your heart and then kissed you just to twist the knife, whether you meant you loved me enough to share, or-_ Because no one _has_ conversations like that. Conversations like that just don’t _happen_.

Well. Apparently conversations like that _do_ happen, but only to people like him – only to people with a freaking _druid princess_ for a girlfriend, whose tribe apparently has some crazy-weird expectations regarding polyamory and how many partners a Headmaster should have. Who only bothered to tell him _today_ , after a month or two of being together, that, yeah, she’s expected to have at least a _few_ other husbands and maybe a wife or two when she goes back to the Air Ashari and settles down. And that, oh, _Gilmore?_ _I didn’t realise you still had- Vax, if you want him, I’d- I’d_ hate _to stop you, well, it’d be hypocritical, really. Go get him!_

In the end, it’s… well, surprisingly easy, in the same way that dragging a dagger from a wound is _easy_. Quick, painful, but not actually that hard.

He crosses the road, one two three _four_ long strides over bare cobblestones. It’s still strange not having ice and snow crunching underfoot – they’ve never seen Whitestone in slowly-budding spring, only deep in the clutches of winter and the Briarwood’s spreading death. He raises hand to the door. He knocks on the door. He waits, stomach twisting like a serpent trying to tie itself in knots.

And when Gilmore opens the door – beautiful, wonderful, _glorious_ Gilmore, and Vax’s heart still soars to see him, even after all this time, the spreading wings of a no-longer-caged bird – his breath catches in his throat, and his carefully-prepared speech dies on his tongue, and he _smiles_.

“Hey, Shaun,” he says, instead, before Gilmore can even get out his usual warm greeting. “Sorry to bother you, but- I’d l just like to clarify-” His heart’s beating heavy in his chest, his palms are sweat-slick, and _gods_ , he’s never felt so _alive_. “When you said you sort of loved me, that one evening, did you- did you mean you loved me enough to share, or…?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "redemption", on the hdmof discord.

Looking back on things, Scanlan’s not entirely sure what he saw in PIke.

Oh, sure, he can see why he’d be attracted to her – she’s gorgeous, clever, kind. Could probably snap him in half without breaking a sweat, which is always a trait he looks for in a woman. But there’s attraction, and then there’s _obsession_ , and he’s fairly honest with himself about what side of that particular equation his adoration for Pike had fallen on, and he can’t quite work it out.

For a while, he manages to convince himself it was lust, pure animal magnetism, despite the fact that he’d never struggled finding women – paid or otherwise – to help him with that particular urge. Or perhaps a joke, though he knows in his heart of hearts that no matter how much he’d joked about it, he’d been perfectly serious. Perhaps love… though he knows love, now, for Kaylie, for his _daughter_ , and knows that the aching warmth and diamond-brilliant pride he feels for her is not what he’d felt for Pike, not even close.

In the end, he’s forced to admit to himself that it was none of those things – or perhaps some of them, perhaps a messy tangle of all of them, but… not, primarily, any one of them.

What he saw in Pike was _redemption._

Scanlan Shorthalt has never been what one might call a _pure_ man, and he’s self-aware enough at least to know that. He drinks too much, swears too much, fucks _far_ too much, to be anything approaching holy, anything approaching _clean_.

But Pike… she’d made redemption seem so close, so _achievable_ , even for someone like him. She’d been radiance and warmth and forgiveness since the moment he’d first met her, an angel bathed in the light of Sarenrae’s glow, guided by Her hand. For the first time, when he’d met her, he’d seen a path to salvation. A path to _goodness_. A second chance.

He knows, now, that life is never that simple. That redemption does not come in the form of a person, and that goodness is not as easy as the the thin line between holiness and sin, and that Pike, deep down, is as flawed and broken as the rest of the ragtag family he’s found himself a part of. He’s grown, and he’s learned – and though a part of him still yearns for the cleansing warmth of that glow, he knows better now than to try and steal it second-hand from a person up on a pedestal of his own creation.

Sometimes, though… sometimes, he still looks at her, radiant in her goddess’ light even blood-spattered and filthy and furious, and he aches. Somewhere deep in his chest, for the knowledge of what he swears he could almost have _touched_ , he _aches_. And he mourns.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "understanding", on the hdmof discord.
> 
> **warning** for depictions of torture for this one.

_Understanding_. That’s what she’d called it, when she’d sliced him open, peeled back layers of skin and fat and muscle with her quick, clever fingers and the wickedly sharp edges of her scalpel. _I want to_ understand _you, Percival. See what makes you tick. They say you’re a wonderfully clever little boy, Percival – let’s see if we can find out_ why.

She’d never told him what, exactly, she was looking for. He’d thought it was something physical, at first. Maybe an organ, maybe a bone, some strange and unique structure hidden inside him. If she dug for long enough, he thought, she was sure to find it. There was only so much of him to open up, only so much skin for her to slice into, only so much blood to drain from his veins. She had to find it _eventually_.

Later, when every inch of him was an open, bloody wound, and pain had become the only constant in this new world of his, and she’d moved onto _fire_ rather than knives, he’d wondered if it was something in the way he responded. If, maybe, she could read some hidden code in his howls and sobs, heard some heaven-sent symphony in them that whispered secrets only she could understand. If she could divine the future in his entrails, read prophecies in the way he writhed, if the smell of his flesh burning under the hot iron was a sacrificial offering to some ancient, blood-soaked deity.

Nowadays, he’s fairly sure her _understanding_ was just the same as her _science_ – an excuse to inflict the pain she so _desperately_ enjoyed seeing him in. Perhaps she’d told herself it wasn’t sadism if she took notes. Perhaps she’d justified the pleasure she’d so obviously gotten from seeing him scream as the joy of gruesome discovery. Perhaps she’d been toying with him, playing with his mind just as she’d played with his body, as if it were hers to wreck and ruin.

In the end, that was all she had been, though. A sadist, and a torturer. A monster first, and a _scientist_ second.

Still… He lies in bed, some nights, and traces the Y-shaped scar that runs thick and ropey across his torso with shaking fingers, and wonders if she ever understood. If she ever managed to find what she was looking for, buried so deep beneath his skin that she carved into his _bones_ in search of it.

Wonders, if she did, why she kept on digging right up until the end.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "subsist", on the hdmof discord.

Vax works hard to support them both, after they leave Syngorn.

It’s not work in the technical sense, Vex supposes – _honest_ work consists of days spent in a field, or behind a shop counter, or at a forge. Vax’s long hours spent dodging the law, hiding in shadows, dipping his fingers into pockets and bags and houses that they have no business being in, is not _honest_ work. But it’s work, nonetheless, that leaves him exhausted and stumbling, shaking from the adrenaline and stress, at the end of the day.

For her part, she spends her days hunting, and bartering as best she can, haggling for much-needed food and supplies with the meager coppers and silvers her brother brings back from his work. She learns the art of a quick tongue, as Vax learns the art of quick fingers – how to charm, persuade, and argue her way to a bargain. She stretches their money as far as it will go, further, and is rewarded with a dry bed for them to sleep in at night, with food, with passage between cities that is just a little safer than travelling alone on food.

Still, for all their work, it’s not enough. It’s _never_ enough.

It’s ungrateful, she knows. Spoiled. Selfish. She would never have been this demanding before Syngorn, when they lived with mother and were grateful for every scrap, every coin. But as she perches on the edge of a single bed, the mattress thin and likely flea-ridden, the blankets mildewed, a half-bowl of cold porridge in her hand and heavy dread in her heart because it’s past ten and her brother’s not back, her brother’s _not back and he said he’d be home by nine-_ She can’t help think that there must be more to life than this. There must be more to life than just suffering, just _existing_ , in the barest sense of the word.

As the door creaks open, slowly, and Vax stumbles in to slump against the bed, eyes exhaustion-bruised and hollow, she forces a smile onto her face. She hands the porridge over to him, whispers, “Here, brother, I saved you some,” and cards fingers through the sweat-tangled mess of his long, fine hair – and promises herself, silently, that one day they will do more than just _subsist_.


End file.
